Bard
by IheartOakenshield193712
Summary: Set after BoFA :: A father he is first, but a husband he remains to the woman who died years ago. Still he would trade honey-coated dreams of her beautiful face for the heartache he feels of his children's night terrors :: Book!Verse references :: Family :: Romance :: Angst


"Bard-"

It had been years since that honey-coated voice crept into his dreams.

He dared in looking up from his seat staring out at the grounds of Dale. He feared it was a trick - that he in fact had not heard anything but the wind.

The wind that loved to taunt him with shadows of danger, shadows that posed a threat to his children and people.

But there she stood, brown hair cascading off her shoulders, green hazel eyes meeting his. Stained words from their dreadful parting still the air between them.

He reached out his arm, breaking the barrier of life and death. His heart beat rhythmically beneath his chest - calm, as it should be. Her palm touched his and he retracted his arm, gently pulling her toward him.

Her feet stopped, her hips just below the top of his head, one hand perched on the broad of his shoulders and the other against the flesh of his cheek.

His eyes reached hers and his lips parted. He yearned to speak, to tell her he's kept his promise - of keeping the children safe above all. Instead he covered her hand with his, holding her quiet gaze.

Moments came to a standstill as the comfortable albeit anxious silence stretched between them. Her hand twitched and his palm lifted, moving to rest on her hip. His eyes slid closed as her nimble seamstress fingers carded through his hair. A ghost of a smile settled across his lips.

She watched the hard lines of his face smooth away with her touches - lines of stress and worry and age that had dug into his flesh since last she saw him. He looked young again.

Young, as the man she met in Lake-Town. Ever as handsome and ever as caring. He hadn't changed - save for the perpetual emptiness in his life that was her. But that was something neither could help.

"Sigrid has turned into a beautiful young lady," she remarked quietly. She noticed he was relaxed.

He didn't open his eyes. Instead, he listened to the softness of her voice. It was as sweet as he remembered, not coated thickly with the illness that plagued her. She held no trace of sickly sadness and choked tears. Composed purely of love and adoration for his efforts in raising their children to young adults.

He hummed. "She reminds me of you."

Her warmth beside him disappeared and he opened his eyes, dreading to realize she had gone and that he was alone.. but he found her leaning on the brick wall of the balcony, watching the quiet dark of Dale.

He was tempted to stand and join her, to wrap his arms around her waist as he did before and pull her close, to bury his face in the back of her neck and kiss her warm flesh - and he did, relishing in the feeling of her body once again close to his.

"I've missed you," he heard himself admit. In truth, he missed her every day but never in the recent days did it hurt him so bad.

She leaned against him and felt warm tears moisten her skin. "I know. I have missed you as well," she sighed. To be torn from her soulmate at such a young age - they had had their whole life ahead of them, their little family, their little heaven - broke her beyond belief. Even years after, she still held the desire to be near him though she knew her constant presence would drive him into madness as he would be overcome with grief.

"Bain, he's turning into a young man. A handsome young man, just like his Da," she continued, a faint smile coating her lips.

His chest rumbled with a chuckle. "And Tilda, she's such a lady," he mused.

She laughed softly. "My little princess," she remembered.

Bard pressed his nose to the back of her neck and felt shame rise within him. "I had forgotten you used to call her that."

"It's been years," she sighed. She sensed his disappointment in himself for forgetting an aspect of his own wife, but she had been gone for a long time.. and Tilda had been too young to remember such nicknames. She traced a light pattern on the back of his hand. "Bain. He was my little frog. Always scampering about."

"And Sigrid?" he added. He knew the nickname his eldest received but he wanted to hear it.

"My beautiful butterfly."

The dark of the night was lightening as the earth turned and the moon came into view. The cobblestone streets below showed the wear and tear that they had endured for the past sixty years: two battles, hundreds of lives lost. The buildings that still stood - most in haphazard condition - cast ominous shadows as the moon gave light.

Bard grimaced. It would take years for Dale to be where it once was before the dragon attacked, before the greed of the dwarves had destroyed the lands just north of Rhovanion.

He glanced into the house - the small and humble area he took for his children and himself, letting the other families take larger shelters. He was adjusting to being a leader still though he was not king, but the people looked up to him and he knew down the line he would become the next king of Dale.

The room and short hall were dark and quiet. The children were asleep. They were safe.

She shifted and regret filled her voice. "I must leave soon."

He felt himself not instead of question her. He knew it was not good to become obsessed with the anticipation of her next presence. Best if she left without reason. "I love you," he said, his voice cracking.

"I love you too," she sighed, her own voice tinged with sadness. She turned in his arms and pressed her palms to the sides of his face, leaning forward and kissing him softly.

His hands went to her back, pulling her closer and tighter to him than he thought possible. He needed to feel that this was real.

She pulled away and smiled at the faint fond crinkle of the corners of his eyes as he looked at her. She brushed his dark hair back with her nimble fingers before pressing her ear against his chest. The steady beat of his heart brought tears to her eyes. She remained there for a bit, taking in every beat, every second, remembering the sound of his heart.

Then she stood straight.

He swallowed, feeling conflicted of watching her leave. But - like he would every time she left for the market on Sundays - he lifted her hand in his callused one and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckle. "My darling," he bid farewell.

A pained but besotted smile lit her face. "My bowman," she said simply.

It was their words of parting for they never said goodbye.

With a lump in his throat, Bard watched her step away from him and toward the end of the balcony where she stopped and looked at him. He couldn't stop the tear escape his eye as her face, her lovely hazel eyes were lost in the breeze that howled through the air.

.. the howl grew louder then a piercing scream sliced through his dreams, jolting him awake to the pitch black emptiness of his room. He threw back the covers and grabbed the dagger he kept under his pillow, prepared to defend his children from any form of intruder.

It took him less than a minute to comb the small area, glancing outside the windows, before he appeared in the doorway of his daughters' room where he achingly heard wailing. He took in the scene before him: Bain standing near the bed looking as helpless as Sigrid who held a shaking and sobbing Tilda. The dagger clanged loudly as he set it on the dresser as he rushed to their side.

He met Sigrid's eyes briefly before urging his youngest to let go of her sister.

"Da!" she cried seeming to barely notice Bard standing there.

He pushed down the pain of seeing his children - especially his youngest - so harshly affected by all that had happened with the dragon and the battle. "Yes, my sweet Tilda. I am here." He gathered her in his arms, wincing as she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He sat on the bed, leaning against the bed frame. He held his youngest tightly. "I am here, my darling," he soothed.

He pressed comforting kisses to her hair as she cried out her fears. "I'm here."


End file.
